The Works of Lord Byron

LXX.
But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudù ?
With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover,
And scorn to add a syllable untrue;

But ere the middle watch was hardly over,
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,
And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover,
To those who like their company, about
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out;
LXXI.

And that so loudly, that upstarted all

The Oda, in a general commotion:
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call
Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean,
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, [tion,
All trembling, wondering, without the least no-
More than I have myself, of what could make
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake.

LXXII.

But wide awake she was, and round her bed,
With floating draperies and with flying hair,
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,

And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare,
And bright as any meteor ever bred

By the North Pole,-they sought her cause of care, For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, Her eye dilated and her color heighten'd.

LXXIII.

LXXVII.

That on a sudden, when she least had hope,
It fell down of its own accord, before
Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop
And pick it up, and bite it to the core;
That just as her young lip began to ope

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore,
A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,
And so she awoke with a great scream and start
LXXVIII.

All this she told with some confusion and
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
To expound their vain and visionary gleams
I've known some odd ones which seem'd really
Prophetically, or that which one deems [plann'd
"A strange coincidence," to use a phrase
By which such things are settled now-a-days.

LXXIX.

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm,
Began, as is the consequence of fear,

To scold a little at the false alarm

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear.
The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear,
And chafed at poor Dudù, who only sigh'd,
And said that she was sorry she had cried
LXXX.

But what is strange-and a strong proof how great I've heard of stories of a cock and bull;
A blessing is sound sleep, Juanna lay
As fast as ever husband by his mate

In holy matrimony snores away.
Not all the clamor broke her happy state

Of slumber, ere they shook her, so they say,
At least, and then she too unclosed her eyes,
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.

LXXIV.

And now commenced a strict investigation,
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once,
Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce
To answer in a very clear oration.

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense,
But being "no orator, as Brutus is,"
Could not at first expound what was amiss.
LXXV.

At length she said, that, in a slumber sound,
She dream'd a dream of walking in a wood-
A "wood obscure," like that where Dante found 1
Himself in at the age when all grow good;
Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue
crown'd

Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ;-
And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits,
And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;

LXXVI.

And in the midst a golden apple grew,-
A most prodigious pippin,-but it hung
Rather too high and distant; that she threw
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung
Stones, and whatever she could pick up, to
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,
But always at a most provoking height -

But visions of an apple and a bee,
To take us from our natural rest, and pull

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past three,
Would make us think the moon is at its full.
You surely are unwell, child! we must see
To-morrow, what his highness's physician
Will say to this hysteric of a vision.

LXXXI.

"And poor Juanna, too! the child's first night
Within these walls, to be broke in upon
With such a clamor-I had thought it right

That the young stranger should not lie alone,
And, as the quietest of all, she might

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known
But now I must transfer her to the charge
Of Lolah-though her couch is not so large."

LXXXII.

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition;

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her own,
Resulting from the scolding or the vision,
Implored that present pardon might be shown
For this first fault, and that on no condition
(She added in a soft and piteous tone)
Juanna should be taken from her, and
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand.

LXXXIII.

She promised never more to have a dream,
At least to dream so loudly as just now;
She wonder'd at herself how she could scream-
"Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow,
A fond hallucination, and a theme

For laughter-but she felt her spirits low,
And begg'd they would excuse her; she'd get over
This weakness in a few hours, and recover

LXXXIV.

And here Juanna kindly interposed,

And said she felt herself extremely well
Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed,
When all around rang like a tocsin bell:
She did not find herself the least disposed
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell
Apart from one who had no sin to show,
Save that of dreaming once "mal-à-propos."
LXXXV.

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudù turn'd round,
And hid her face within Juanna's breast;
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found
The color of a budding rose's crest.

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound
The mystery of this rupture of their rest:
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.

LXXXVI.

And so good night to them,-or, if you will,
Good morrow-for the cock had crown, and light
Began to clothe each Asiatic hill,

And the mosque crescent struggled into sight
Of the long caravan, which in the chill

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height That stretches to the stony belt which girds Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds.

LXXXVII.

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn,
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness; and pale
As Passion rises, with its bosom worn,

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil.
The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn,
Which fable places in her breast of wail,
Is lighter far of heart and voice than those
Whose headlong passions form their proper woes.

LXXXVIII.

And that's the moral of this composition,

If people would but see its real drift ;But that they will not do without suspicion, Because all gentle readers have the gift Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision; While gentle writers also love to lift

XCI.

He did not think much on the matter, nor
Indeed on any other: as a man,

He liked to have a handsome paramour
At hand, as one may like to have a fan,
And therefore of Circassians had good store,
As an amusement after the Divan;
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty,

Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty.

XCII.

And now he rose: and after due ablutions,
Exacted by the customs of the East,
And prayers, and other pious evolutions,

He drank six cups of coffee at the least,
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians,
Whose victories had recently increased,

In Catharine's reign, whom glory still adores As greatest of all sovereigns and w—s

XCIII.

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander !

Her son's son,-let not this last phrase offend Thine ear, if it should reach,—and now rhymes wanAlmost as far as Petersburg, and lend [der

A dreadful impulse to each loud meander

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend Their roar even with the Baltic's, so you be Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me.

XCIV.

To call men love-begotten, or proclaim

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, That hater of mankind, would be a shame,

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: But people's ancestors are history's game;

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on All generations, I should like to know What pedigree the best would have to show?

XCV.

Had Catherine and the sultan understood
Their own true interest, which kings rarely know,
Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude,

There was a way to end their strife, although
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good,
Without the aid of prince or plenipo:

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural-She to dismiss her guards, and he his haram, The numbers are too great for them to flatter all.

And for their other matters, meet and share 'em.

XCVI.

But as it was, his highness had to hold

His daily council upon ways and means, How to encounter with this martial scold,

This modern Amazon and queen of queans; And the perplexity could not be told

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans Sometimes a little heavy on the backs Of those who cannot lay on a new tax.

CXVII.

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone,
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone,
And rich with all contrivances which grace
Those gay recesses:-many a precious stone
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers,
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours.

He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to What she could ne'er express-then how should I?

know.

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied

To this long catechism of questions, ask'd
More easily than answer'd,-that he had tried
His best to obey in what he had been task'd;
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide,
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd;

He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource
To which embarrass'd people have recourse.
CI.

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience,

Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed; She liked quick answers in all conversations; And when she saw him stumbling like a steed In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones;

And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle.

CII.

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew To bode him no great good, he deprecated

CVII.

She stood a moment, as a Pythoness

Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full Of inspiration gather'd from distress,

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull The heart asunder;-then, as more or less

Their speed abated, or their strength grew dull, She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees.

CVIII.

Her face declined, and was unseen; her hair
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow,
Sweeping the marble underneath her chair,
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow,-
A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair

Which rushes to some shore, whose shingles check
Its farther course, but must receive its wreck.

Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow,

CIX.

Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping
Conceal'd her features better than a veil;

Her anger, and beseech'd she'd hear him through-And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping,

He could not help the thing which he related: Then out it came at length, that to Dudu

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated; But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran.

CIII.

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom
The discipline of the whole haram bore,
As soon as they reenter'd their own room,
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door,
Had settled all: nor could he then presume

(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, Without exciting such suspicion as Might make the matter still worse than it was.

CIV.

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure
Juan had not betray'd himself; in fact,
"Twas certain that his conduct had been pure,
Because a foolish or imprudent act
Would not alone have made him insecure,

But ended in his being found out and sack'd,
And thrown into the sea. Thus Baba spoke
Of all save Dudù's dream, which was no joke.

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale; Would that I were a painter! to be grouping

All that a poet drags into detail!

Oh that my words were colors! but their tints May serve, perhaps, as outlines or slight hints.

CX.

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk And when to hold his tongue, now held it till This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will.

At length she rose up, and began to walk

Slowly along the room, but silent still, And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eyeThe wind was down, but still the sea ran high.

CXI.

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak-but paused,

And then moved on again with rapid pace;
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused
By deep emotion:-you may sometimes trace
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased
By all the demons of all passions, show'd
Their work even by the way in which he trode.

Socrates said, our only knowledge was,

XII.

[pleasant But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge,

"To know that nothing could be known; Science enough, which levels to an ass

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton, (that proverb of the mind,) alas!

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only "like a youth Picking up shells by the great ocean-Truth." VI.

Ecclesiastes said, that all is vanity

Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity;

In short, all know, or very soon may know it; And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,

By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, From holding up the nothingness of life?

VII.

Dogs, or men! (for I flatter you in saying
That ye are dogs-your betters far)-ye may
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying
To show ye what ye are in every way.
As little as the moon stops for the baying

Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdraw one ray From out her skies;-then howl your idle wrath! While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path.

And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet: Two batteries, cap-à-pié, as our Saint George, Case-mated one, and 'tother a "barbette," Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; While two-and-twenty cannon, duly set, Rose o'er the town's right side, in bristling tier Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

XIII.

But from the river the town's open quite,

Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight; And such their creed was, till they were invaded, When it grew rather late to set things right.

But as the Danube could not well be waded,
They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla,
And only shouted, "Allah!" and "Bis Millah!"
XIV.

The Russians now were ready to attack;
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory!
How shall I spell the name of each Cossack
Who were immortal, could one tell their story?
Alas! what to their memory can lack?

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, Whose names want nothing but-pronunciation. XV.

Still I'll record a few, if but to increase

[noff,

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The Works of Lord Byron: Embracing His Suppressed Poems, and a Sketch of His ...